


The Magic Grenade

by ms_prue



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Charles Dickens - Freeform, F/M, Fairy Tales, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_prue/pseuds/ms_prue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the fairytale <i>The Magic Fishbone</i> is magically transformed into Mass Effect 2 fanfic, with deepest apologies to Charles Dickens's ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Magic Grenade

There was once a Councillor Udina, and also an Admiral Hackett; and the Councillor was the manliest of his sex, and the Admiral was also purportedly quite handsome but it was difficult to confirm because he was so seldom seen in public. The Councillor was, in his private profession, Under Galactic Government at the Citadel. The Admiral's business was the defence of the Alliance's human colonies near Arcturus.

They had nine trained killers who had been set on the problem of the Collectors, a mysterious alien species who had begun to attack human colonies. Seven of these killers took care of the baby tank-grown krogan; and Shepard, the first human Spectre, took care of them all. Their ages varied from seven hundred years to seven weeks.

Let us now resume our story.

One day the Councillor was going to the office, when he stopped at Elkoss Combine to buy ten and a half pounds of heavy munitions, which the Admiral (who was a firm believer in a just-in-time supply chain) had requested him to send to the Alliance fleet. Niftu Cal, the volus store clerk, said, "Certainly, sir, is there any other article? Good-morning."

The Councillor went on towards his office in a melancholy mood, for the delivery date for the Alliance fleet's new dreadnoughts was such a long way off. He had not proceeded far, when Niftu Cal's errand-boy came running after him, and said, "Sir, you didn't notice the Prothean in our shop."

"What Prothean?" enquired the Councillor. "I saw none."

Now, the Councillor had not seen any Prothean, because this old Prothean had been invisible to him, though visible to Niftu Cal's boy. Probably because he messed about to that degree, and flopped the arms and munitions down in that violent manner, that, if the Prothean had not been visible to him, he would have blown the Prothean up and finally achieved what the Reapers had not been able to do in fifty thousand years, which was the complete and final eradication of the Prothean species.

Just then the Prothean came trotting up. It was dressed in chitinous armour of the richest quality, smelling of dried lavender.

"Councillor Udina, I believe?" said the Prothean.

"Udina," replied the Councillor, "is my name."

"Council contact, if I am not mistaken, for the beautiful Commander Shepard?" said the Prothean.

"And of eight or so other highly trained killers of various species," replied the Councillor.

"Listen. You are going to the office," said the Prothean.

It instantly flashed upon the Councillor that it must really be a Prothean, or how could it know that?

"You are right," said the Prothean, answering his thoughts, "I am the last Prothean in existence. Attend. When you return home from the office, politely invite Commander Shepard to take some of the munitions you bought just now."

"She likely has sufficient munitions already," said the Councillor.

The old Prothean became so very angry at this absurd idea, that the Councillor was quite alarmed, and humbly begged pardon.

"We hear a great deal too much about this thing being sufficient, and that thing being sufficient," said the Prothean, with the greatest contempt it was possible to express. "Don't be greedy. I think you want them all yourself."

The Councillor hung his head under this reproof, and said he wouldn't talk about things being sufficient any more.

"Be good, then," said the Prothean, "and don't! When the beautiful Commander Shepard consents to partake of the munitions -- as I think she will -- you will find she will leave behind a grenade in the crate. Tell her to clean it, and to rub it, and to polish it till it shines like mother-of-pearl, and to take care of it as a present from me."

"Is that all?" asked the Councillor.

"Don't be impatient, sir," returned the Prothean, scolding him severely. "Don't catch people short, before they have done speaking. Just the way with you new species. You are always doing it."

The Councillor again hung his head, and said he wouldn't do so any more.

"Be good then," said the Prothean, "and don't! Tell Commander Shepard, with my love, that the grenade is a magic present which can only be used once; but that it will bring her, that once, whatever she wishes for, PROVIDED SHE WISHES FOR IT AT THE RIGHT TIME. That is the message. Take care of it."

The Councillor was beginning, "Might I ask the reason-- ?" when the Prothean became absolutely furious.

" _Will_ you be good, sir?" the Prothean exclaimed, stamping its foot on the ground. "The reason for this, and the reason for that, indeed! You are always wanting the reason. No reason. There! Hoity toity me! I am sick of your human reasons."

The Councillor was extremely frightened by the old Prothean's flying into such a passion, and said he was very sorry to have offended it, and he wouldn't ask for reasons any more.

"Be good then," said the Prothean, "and don't!"

With those words, the Prothean vanished, and the Councillor went on and on and on, till he came to the office. There he wrote and wrote and wrote, till it was time to go home again. Then he politely invited Commander Shepard, as the Prothean had directed him, to partake of the munitions. And when she had opened the crate and obviously enjoyed its contents very much, he saw a grenade left over in the bottom of the box, as the Prothean had told him he would, and he delivered the Prothean's message, and Commander Shepard took care to clean the grenade, and to rub it, and to polish it till it shone like mother-of-pearl.

And so when Admiral Hackett was going to get up in the morning to see to the reconstruction of the Fifth Fleet and the defence of the colonies, he said, "O, dear me, dear me; my head, my head!" and then he fainted away.

Commander Shepard, who happened to be looking in at the door, asking about the Collectors, was very much alarmed when she saw the Admiral in this state, and she rang the bell for Chakwas, which was the name of the ship's doctor. But remembering where the Serrice Ice Brandy was, she climbed on a chair and got it, and after that she climbed on another chair by the bedside and held a snifter of the brandy to the Admiral's lips, and after that she jumped down and got some water, and after that she jumped up again and wetted the Admiral's forehead, and, in short, when the ship's doctor came in, that dear old woman said to the Commander, "What a Trot you are! I couldn't have done it better myself!"

But that was not the worst of the good Admiral's illness. O, no! He was very ill indeed, for a long time, because his nerves were shot all to bits from the strain of not having an Alliance Spectre on call at all hours. So even though Commander Shepard didn't work for him any more, she kept the seven highly-trained killers quiet, and took care of the baby krogan, and fought the Collectors, and upgraded the ship, and investigated strange distress signals, and shot things, and did all that ever she could, and was as busy busy busy, as busy could be. For there were not enough Alliance ships or human Spectres, for three reasons; because the Alliance lost a third of their fleets saving the Galactic Council, because a rise in humanity's status in the galaxy never seemed to come, and because the rate of new dreadnought production was so slow the delivery date for the new fleets was so far away that it looked almost as far off and as little as a star without a mass relay.

But on the morning when the Admiral fainted away, where was the magic grenade? Why, there it was in Commander Shepard's pocket. She had almost taken it out to bring the Admiral to life again, when she put it back, and looked for the brandy.

After the Admiral had come out of his swoon that morning, and was dozing, Commander Shepard hurried downstairs to the engineering sub-deck to tell a most particular secret to a most particularly confidential friend of hers, who was a Duchess. People did suppose her to be a psychotic biotic anarchist; but she was really a Duchess, though nobody knew it except the Commander.

This most particular secret was a secret about the magic grenade, the history of which was well known to the Duchess, because the Commander told her everything. The Commander sat down by the cot in the engineering sub-deck on which the Duchess was lounging and whispered the secret to her.

The Duchess smiled and nodded. People might have supposed that she never smiled and nodded, but she often did, though nobody knew it except the Commander.

Then Commander Shepard hurried upstairs again, to keep tabs on the Admiral. She often kept watch on the Admiral's status; but every evening, while the illness lasted, she checked in with the Councillor. And every evening the Councillor gave her a cross look, wondering why she never brought out the magic grenade. As often as she noticed this, she ran downstairs, whispered the secret to the Duchess over again, and said to the Duchess besides, "They think we Spectres never have a reason or a meaning!" And the Duchess, despite being more violent than all the rest of the trained killers on the Normandy, with the possible exception of the baby krogan, nodded and winked.

"Shepard," said the Councillor, one evening when she reported in.

"Yes, Udina."

"What is become of the magic grenade?"

"In my pocket, Udina."

"I thought you had lost it?"

"O, no, Udina."

"Or forgotten it?"

"No, indeed, Udina."

And so another time the dreadful little Illusive Man made an appearance in front one of the violent killers as she was coming home from her loyalty mission, and irritated her out of her wits and she punched her hand through a pane of glass, and bled bled bled. When the seven other violent killers saw her bleed bleed bleed, they were irritated out of their wits too, and screamed themselves black in their seven faces all at once. But Commander Shepard put her hands over all their seven mouths, one after another, and persuaded them to be quiet. And then she put the wounded killer's hand in a basin of fresh cold water, while they stared with their twice seven are fourteen eyes, and then she looked in the hand for bits of glass, and there were fortunately no bits of glass there. And then she said to two curly-legged killers who were sturdy though small, "Bring me in the Cerberus rag-bag; I must snip and stitch and cut and contrive." So those two violent killers tugged at the Cerberus rag-bag (which was mostly filled with ex-Alliance items of dubious provenance) and lugged it in, and Commander Shepard sat down on the floor with her omnitool, a large pair of scissors and a needle and thread, and snipped and stitched and cut and contrived, and made a bandage and put it on, and it fitted beautifully, and so when it was all done she saw the Councillor looking on by the door.

"Shepard."

"Yes, Udina."

"What have you been doing?"

"Snipping stitching cutting and contriving, Udina."

"Where is the magic grenade?"

"In my pocket, Udina."

"I thought you had lost it?"

"O, no, Udina."

"Or forgotten it?"

"No, indeed, Udina."

After that, she ran downstairs to the Duchess and told her what had passed, and told her the secret over again, and the Duchess shook her head and laughed with her glossy lips.

Well! and so another time the baby krogan fell under a thresher maw. The seven other trained killers were used to it, for they were almost always falling under threshers or mercenary packs or down the stairs, but the baby krogan was not used to it yet, and it gave him a swelled face and a terrible blood rage. The way the poor little darling came to tumble was, that he slid out of the Commander's lap just as she was sitting in front of the mess-room stove, beginning to peel the turnips for the broth for dinner; and the way she came to be doing that was, that the Mess Sergeant had run away that morning with his own true love who was a very tall but very tipsy turian. Then, the seven trained killers, who shot at everything that moved, picked up their weapons and roared. But Commander Shepard (who couldn't help wanting to pick up a shotgun a little herself) called to them to be still, and said, "Hold your tongues, you wicked little monsters, every one of you, while I examine the baby krogan!" Then she examined the baby krogan, and found that he hadn't broken anything, and she held cold iron to his poor dear eye, and smoothed his poor dear face, and he presently fell asleep in her arms. Then, she said to the seven trained killers, "I am afraid to lay him down yet, lest he should wake and feel more blood rage; be good, and you shall all be cooks." They jumped for joy when they heard that, and began making themselves cooks' caps out of old refined iridium wrappers. So to Thane she gave the sea-salt box, and to Miranda she gave the barley, and to Jacob she gave the herbs, and to Mordin she gave the turnips, and to Tali she gave the carrots, and to Legion she gave the onions, and to Samara she gave the spice-box, till they were all cooks, and all running about at work, she sitting in the middle smothered in the great coarse apron, nursing the baby krogan. By and by the broth was done, and the baby krogan woke up smiling like an angel, and was trusted to the strongest biotic to hold, while the other trained killers were squeezed into a far-off corner to look at Commander Shepard turning out the saucepan-full of broth, for fear (as they were always getting into trouble) they should get splashed and scalded. When the broth came tumbling out, steaming beautifully, and smelling like a nosegay good to eat, they clapped their hands. That made the baby krogan clap his hands; and that made all the trained killers laugh. So Commander Shepard said, "Laugh and be good, and after dinner we will make him a nest on the floor in a corner, and he shall sit in his nest and see a dance of eight assassins." That delighted the violent killers, and they ate up all the broth, and washed up all the plates and dishes, and cleared away, and pushed the table into a corner, and then they in their cooks' caps, and Commander Shepard in the smothering coarse apron that belonged to the Mess Sergeant that had run away with his own true love that was the very tall but very tipsy turian, danced a dance of eight assassins before the angelic baby krogan, who forgot his swelled face and his blood rage, and clapped with joy.

And so then, once more Commander Shepard saw Councillor Udina standing in the doorway looking on, and he said: "What have you been doing, Shepard?"

"Cooking and contriving, Udina."

"What else have you been doing, Shepard?"

"Keeping the violent killers light-hearted, Udina."

"Where is the magic grenade, Shepard?"

"In my pocket, Udina."

"I thought you had lost it?"

"O, no, Udina."

"Or forgotten it?"

"No, indeed, Udina."

The Councillor then sighed so heavily, and seemed so low-spirited, and sat down so miserably, leaning his head upon his hand, and his elbow upon the mess-room table pushed away in the corner, that the seven vicious killers crept softly out of the mess, and left him alone with Commander Shepard and the angelic baby krogan.

"What is the matter, Udina?"

"We are dreadfully defenceless against the Collectors, my dear."

"Have we no defences at all, Udina?"

"None, I'm afraid."

"Is there no way left of getting any, Udina?"

"No way," said the Councillor. "I have tried very hard, and I have tried all ways."

When she heard those last words, Commander Shepard began to put her hand into the pocket where she kept the magic grenade.

"Udina," said she, "when we have tried very hard, and tried all ways, we must have done our very very best?"

"No doubt, Shepard."

"When we have done our very very best, and that is not enough, then I think the right time must have come for asking help of others." This was the very secret connected with the magic , which she had found out for herself from the good Prothean's words, and which she had so often whispered to her beautiful and fashionable friend the Duchess.

So she took out of her pocket the magic grenade that had been cleaned and rubbed and polished till it shone like mother-of-pearl; and she gave it one little kiss and wished for a new fleet for the Alliance. And immediately there _was_ a new fleet; and several new dreadnoughts popped into existence above threatened human colonies and chased off the Collectors.

But this was not half of what happened, no, not a quarter, for immediately afterwards the Last Prothean came riding in, in a carriage and four (Peacocks), with Niftu Cal's boy up behind, dressed in silver and gold, with a cocked hat, powdered hair, pink silk stockings, a jewelled cane, and a nosegay. Down jumped Niftu Cal's boy with his cocked hat in his hand and wonderfully polite (being entirely changed by enchantment), and handed the Prothean out, and there it stood in its rich chitinous armour smelling of dried lavender, fanning itself with a sparkling fan.

"Shepard, my dear," said this charming old Prothean, "how do you do. Truly, the beacons don't do you justice."

Commander Shepard embraced it, and then the Prothean turned to the Councillor, and said rather sharply:-- "Are you good?"

The Councillor said he hoped so.

"I suppose you know the reason, _now_ , why the Commander did not apply the grenade sooner?" said the Prothean.

The Councillor made it a shy bow.

"Ah! but you didn't _then_!" said the Prothean.

The Councillor made a shyer bow.

"Any more reasons to ask for?" said the Prothean.

The Councillor said no, and he was very sorry.

"Be good then," said the Prothean, "and live happy ever afterwards. Until the Reapers come, of course."

Then, the Prothean waved its fan, and the Admiral came in most splendidly dressed, and the seven vicious killers, no longer shabby in sub-standard armour, came in newly fitted out from top to toe, with back-up generators in everything to ensure their shields never gave out. After that, the Prothean tapped Commander Shepard with its fan, and the smothering coarse apron flew away, and she appeared exquisitely dressed in gleaming white battle armour, like a little Bride, with a wreath of orange-flowers and a silver helmet. After that, her cabin's locker changed of itself into a wardrobe, made of beautiful woods and gold and looking glass, which was full of armour of all sorts and good quality, non-Cerberus issue underwear, all for her and all exactly fitting her. After that, the angelic baby krogan came in, running alone, with his face not a bit the worse but much the better. Then the Prothean begged to be introduced to the Duchess, and when the Duchess came out many compliments passed between them, to the amazement of all the other trained killers, who didn't realise the Duchess had the vocabulary to be so polite.

A little whispering took place between the Prothean and the Duchess, and then the Prothean said out loud, "Yes. I thought she would have told you." The old Prothean then turned to the Councillor and the Admiral, and said, "We are going in search of Garrus Vakarian. The pleasure of your company is requested at church in half an hour precisely." So the Last Prothean and Commander Shepard got into the carriage, and the Duchess sat by herself on the opposite seat, and then Niftu Cal's boy put up the steps and got up behind, and the Peacocks flew away with their tails spread.

Garrus Vakarian was sitting by himself, cleaning his sniper rifle and waiting to be ninety. When he looked through his window and saw the Peacocks followed by the carriage, rather than a shuttle full of unhappy mercenaries hellbent on revenge, it immediately occurred to him that something uncommon was going to happen.

"Garrus," said the Prothean, "I bring you your Bride."

The moment the Prothean said those words, Garrus Vakarian's rifle left off being grimy, and his badly-damaged armour changed to an elegantly tailored suit of peach-bloom velvet. He got into the carriage by the Prothean's invitation, and there he renewed his acquaintance with the Duchess, who he had once helped rescue from prison.

In the church were Garrus's relations and the ghosts of his friends, and Commander Shepard's friends and the ghosts of her relations, and the seven trained killers, and the baby krogan, and the Alliance crew of the Normandy SR1 and the Cerberus crew of the Normandy SR2. The marriage was beautiful beyond expression. The Duchess was bridesmaid, and beheld the ceremony from the altar, where she said the view was better, although later several valuable candlesticks were discovered to be missing.

The Prothean gave a magnificent wedding feast afterwards, in which there was everything and more , both dextro- and levo-appropriate, to eat, and everything and more to drink. The wedding cake was delicately ornamented with white satin ribbons and frosted silver and was forty-two yards long and shaped like a replica of the Normandy, although nobody could decide whether it was the SR1 or SR2 until the Duchess pointed out it must have been the SR1 on account of the hull was quite easily breached with a butter knife.

When the Prothean had toasted the happy couple, and Garrus Vakarian had made a speech, and everybody had cried _Hip hip hip hurrah!_ the Prothean announced to the Councillor and Admiral that in future there would be eight new dreadnoughts built for the Fleet every year, except in leap years, when there would be ten. It then turned to Vakarian and Shepard, and said, "My dears, you will have thirty-five krogan children, and they will all be fearsome warriors. Seventeen of your children will favour shotguns, and eighteen will be snipers. They will all be good with assault rifles and pistols. They will never have to deal with diplomats, and will have recovered from the genophage before being born."

On hearing such good news, everybody cried out "Hip hip hip hurrah!" again.

"It only remains," said the Prothean in conclusion, "to make an end of the grenade."

So it took the grenade from the hand of Commander Shepard and pulled the pin, and it instantly flew down the throat of the dreadful little Illusive Man, and he expired in a great exploding fireball.

**Author's Note:**

> The original text of _The Magic Fishbone_ can be found at Project Gutenberg: <http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23344>


End file.
